Technicalities
by chao2713
Summary: AU. RusEng. Ivan is the creepy intern in the school computer lab, and Arthur's computer just broke.


Technicalities

Summary: AU. Oneshot. Ivan is the creepy intern in the school computer lab, and Arthur's computer just broke.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

"Shiit. Shit. Not now." Arthur prays to the gods of technology. "Please. Not now."

Ivan is fishing around the office, and through the window, he sees a guy—his age, and a frequenter of the lab—talking to his computer. Yes, talking. With a half-smirk of amusement, Ivan abandons his search and walks to the window, pressing his face against the glass to watch as the guy's face becomes increasingly the picture of horror.

Usually, this guy is neat, clean, well-spoken, and together. He always dresses nicely, his hair is always (relatively) neat, and he never, _never_ does anything wrong. Now, however, at three am, in the university's computer lab, Mr. Perfect is falling apart, and fast. His eyes are dead and encircled by bags wrought only by a profound lack of sleep, and his hair is messed up, in the way that only catching bits of sleep in between lectures and all-nighters can mess hair up.

Frankly, it's attractive. Ivan always likes a good mess. A mess is not just a mess, anyway. It's a puzzle, and once you solve it, it's clean. And Mr. Perfect might as well be dubbed Mr. Enigma, anyway, because Ivan was fascinated by him before.

Ivan runs to the nearest faculty lounge and returns with black coffee. He, normally, would spit the horrid stuff out, but Mr. Perfect/Enigma seems like the type to prefer black coffee. Black coffee is more efficient, industrious, and mature. In other words, everything that Ivan is not.

"Hey. So, you look kinda sleepy."

Ivan is standing next to the guy, who looks up from clutching his head in his hands slowly. His bright eyes narrow, and the left one twitches. Ivan raises his eyebrows. "What?"

The guy continues to glare at him.

"You think a cup of coffee is going to fix this?" He snarls, jabbing a shaking finger at the screen, which is blue. His voice is distinctly British, this is the first time they've spoken. Ivan watches him patiently. "My entire chemistry lab, which I just finished, is probably lost now. And it's due in..." He checks his watch. "Five hours. Wait, no. Four hours, and forty-seven minutes. I've spent hours on it. More than hours. _Days_." He proceeds to clutch his head again and mutter to himself. Ivan frowns and looks at the screen. He sets the coffee down.

"Well, you're in luck. I'm the tech!" He says brightly. He pushes the wheelie chair with the guy in it aside, and checks out the computer. "Did you save your work recently?"

Mr. Perfect nods. "I save it every ten minutes."

"...wow, you really are perfect." Ivan says, smirking. If the guy's surprised by this comment, he doesn't show it.

Ivan fiddles around, but to no avail. It's frustrating, but finally, after about an hour, the blue screen flickers, and the spreadsheet with complicated numbers, equations, and charts pops up again. The guy breathes a sigh of relief. He slides down in his chair, and rests his head on the back of the wheelie chair.

"I owe you one." He says, and Ivan knows he wouldn't say that if he weren't so tired and on the verge of an emotional breakdown. He's not the type to balance scales; the world owes him merely because he is perfect and smart and handsome and blah blah blah.

"I'll call the favor one of these days." Ivan says carefully. He rises and straightens his shirt and hair. "Oh, I guess your coffee is cold." He looks the guy in the eye.

"I'll drink it for you next time." He says as he prints out the files. He rubs his eyes, and Ivan thinks, next time.

As he leaves, Ivan calls out, "You can call me Ivan." He feels awkward, standing there, stopping Mr. Perfect from leaving. Mr. Perfect looks over his shoulder.

"You can call me Arthur."

It's ten pm. Friday. Most people are out, but of course, Ivan is in. He is in the little office in the computer lab, without any privacy, because the office is lined with windows and surrounded by the lab. Not that he'd need privacy, of course. It's the principal of the thing.

He bites out of a doughnut and continues surfing the net. He's looking up cheats for a game he likes, reading online articles, and checking his email. He's babysitting the lab until his boss returns, which won't be for a few hours, at least. And then, after that, it's his shift. Ivan doesn't really mind that much, though. He'd just be doing the same thing at his dorm, anyway.

He can hear the door open. He slides his gaze from the screen, out the office, to the lab. Arthur is sitting there. He's looking perfect again, not messed up like last night... Or, technically, this morning. He's wearing a green sweater vest, chinos, and nicer shoes. Not a hair out of place – well, his hair was quite disheveled, but in a devastatingly good-looking kind of way. Ivan is impressed. In less than a day, he's pulled himself together. But now, Ivan knows that a breakdown is bubbling under the surface waiting for one thing to set it off, make it boil over. Ivan wonders what that thing would be.

Ivan goes back to surfing the net, but he is so aware of Arthur that it's as if the guy is right next to him.

A knock at the office window. Arthur's outside. Ivan lets him in, although in hindsight it occurs to him that he should have come out of the office.

"What?" Ivan asks a little rudely. Arthur's hand twitches, and Ivan wonders if it's because he wants to fix some aspect of Ivan's extremely un-perfect appearance. Ivan sits back down in his wheelie chair. The desk goes along three of the walls, and is attached to the wall. It's cluttered with all kinds of crap, but without thinking, Arthur pushes it off. Ivan refuses to flinch as a coffee mug breaks and papers fly everywhere. He sits on the desk, so that he is facing Ivan. And yet, he still doesn't look at him. He picks up a ballpoint pen, examines it, looks Ivan in the eyes, and as they hold the gaze, he snaps the pen with one hand.

"This place looks like shit. How can you live like this?" Arthur asks in disgust. He pushes some more stuff off the desk. This time, Ivan flinches.

"How can you be so perfect? We're all made differently, anyway." He says defensively.

They still have not addressed the issue of why Arthur's here.

"I won't be back later." Arthur says, and Ivan blinks.

"You just got here."

Arthur doesn't answer, but just leaves. He goes back to his computer, and continues to type.

Ivan's chest tightens. Arthur won't be back later. It's an invitation, though an odd one.

He's standing in front of Arthur's dorm room. The door is closed, though Ivan is willing to bet any amount of money that it's unlocked. It's twelve am. Arthur left the lab an hour and a half ago, and Ivan only now just got up the... moxie? Bravado? Gall? Courage? Whatever. He's here now. Should he knock? He knows, from hacking the system, that Arthur's got a single, so he doesn't have to worry about roommates.

He turns the handle, and just as he thought, Arthur left it unlocked. Arthur's at his desk, writing down notes in a notebook as he skims a third-year calculus book. At Ivan 's presence, he glances up.

"I'm just stopping by." Ivan says carefully, shutting the door. Arthur smirks, but says nothing.

Ivan wanders around the room. It's neat, too neat. There is a humanities book, Ivan recognizes it as one about the consequences the American Revolution had on the English, on the nightstand. The bed is made, the floor is spotless, and the desk has nothing extra on it. The sterility of the room makes Ivan uncomfortable. His mind flashes back to the way Arthur trashed the office. It took a long time to clean that up.

Ivan sees it for what it is, though. It's a game. A game of tension, a way of turning anger into passion, using the technicalities to his advantage. Technically, they're both straight. Technically, they're opposites. Things like that. He's good, but Ivan's one step ahead of him. Arthur thinks one thing will happen tonight, but Ivan decided on his way to the dorm that that one thing won't happen, at least not tonight. The further he pushes it back, the better it will be. The longer the battle, the sweeter the victory.

Ivan walks to the desk. Arthur still doesn't look up. Ivan notes there's a paper cup next to his notebook. Very purposefully, he knocks it over, spilling it over the notes. It runs down the pages, smearing and blotting the ink. The entire notebook is ruined, and now the liquid is spilling off the desk and onto Arthur's clothes. When it's Arthur and his belongings, the imperfection, the mess, drives him crazy. He can destroy, but he cannot be destroyed. He's power-hungry. The scent of tea fills the air, and Arthur pushes his book away.

"Well?" He looks at Ivan expectantly. Ivan lets a not-so-pleasant smile pass over his lips.

"Eye for an eye. Anyways, I was just stopping by. I should go." He turns to leave, and Arthur almost chokes in surprise. Before he can say anything, Ivan slams the door so hard that he can hear things fall off the wall in Arthur's room and shatter.

It's Ivan's night off, so he sits in his dorm, drinking unfiltered vodka and, as usual, surfing the net. It's been three days since the visit to Arthur's room,and nothing has happened. But Ivan has patience in spades. He knows he hasn't stopped Arthur's interest, because Arthur still visits the computer lab, looking especially pristine. He's rubbing it in Ivan's face, just _asking_ for Ivan to make him look messy. He's flaunting his power. But Ivan has power too.

The room is dark, and the only light comes from the monitor. Ivan's bed is completely messed up—the covers are on the other side of the room, clothes and papers and old food containers lay scattered on the floor. Ivan loves that Arthur would—no, _will_ —hate it. Ivan knows he's going to come tonight. He can feel it. And when he does, Ivan will turn him down. Again.

Just to add to Arthur's frustration, he locks the door.

Around two am, he hears the knob turning in vain. Finally, the knock comes. Ivan stares at the door, waiting.

"I know you're in there."

Ivan pushes off of the desk and lets the wheelie chair roll over to the door. He unlocks it, and opens it a sliver. Arthur is wearing black chinos and a white collared shirt, with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. The white t-shirt underneath seems even more revealing than if he hadn't worn anything underneath. The power of suggestion is something Arthur seems to favor, but Ivan prefers the power of rejection.

"I'm busy right now." Ivan says, licking droplets of alcohol off of his fingers. Arthur looks at him impassively, but something's changed.

Then, Arthur does something Ivan had assumed he wouldn't. He smiles, and without another word, gently pulls the door shut. Nothing falls off the walls, and there's no noise, no drama, no destruction. It has what Ivan assumes is the intended effect..

Ivan sits there for a moment. Should he go to Arthur's dorm? It's tempting, but then it would all be over so fast. But thanks to Arthur just leaving him there, Ivan is beginning to feel the strain.

Ivan rolls over to his desk and swirls a mouthful of Smirnoff around, as he stares at the wall, thinking. He has to get the better of Arthur.

It's three days later, again. Almost a week since the chemistry lab disaster, and Ivan muses on the fact that chemistry has wrought this situation. It's a double meaning, something Ivan loves. Double meanings give so much room for thought, so much suggestion.

He is working on one of the computers in the lab. He's turned the lights off because he likes it dark, and besides, no one comes into the computer lab at one am—except for Arthur, in which case darkness would be helpful.

The door opens, and Ivan knows Arthur's there . He can smell the distinctly tea-y odor, he can feel the way Arthur's presence fills the room. Ivan ignores him, and pulls out a piece of the computer. He examines it in the light provided by the monitor. Ivan waits for Arthur to come sit with him, but he sits far away, at the other end of the lab. Ivan wants to look, but he won't. This is part of Arthur's plan to get the best of him.

He won't win.

Ivan begins to whistle loudly as he works, and makes as much noise as possible. He taps his fingers, shifts in his chair, hits his leg against the table in time to the song he whistles. He hums off key, wondering if Arthur looks perfect, or if he's having a breakdown again. Seeing him like that piqued Ivan's interest, more than he had been interested, anyway. Something lurks beneath the surface, and Ivan wants to bring it back. He loves a mess.

Just as he's getting comfortable annoying Arthur, Arthur turns off the computer. He leaves. Ivan didn't even get a good look at him.

And then, after ten minutes, Ivan sees that it's his turn. And it has to be something good, because Arthur went twice, and they were both pretty effective. Mainly because he can think on his feet.

Ivan locks the lab, and goes to Arthur's dorm. Lack of sleep make him feel strangely giddy as he walks. He's not used to moving so much, but it's worth it.

He devises his plan as he walks, and when he reaches Arthur's dorm, he's ready.

He doesn't knock, but expects the door to be locked. It is, but Ivan can pick locks.

Arthur is, much to Ivan's surprise, not working at his desk. Instead, he's collapsed on his bed, with work piled high on the desk and a textbook in his hands as he sleeps. Well, a minor change in plans.

He picks up the papers, and rips them into little shreds. He tears pages out of textbooks. He draws on Arthur's desk. He breaks his pens. He pulls all of the clothes out of the closet, all dry-cleaned and still in their plastic covering, and throws them on the floor, stomping on them. Arthur remains asleep.

He pulls the covers off of Arthur and throws them across the room. Last, but not least, he pulls off his own shirt and coat, then Arthur's. He puts Arthur's shirt on, and then, careful so as not to wake Arthur, puts his own shirt and thick coat on him. He's almost tempted to wrap his scarf around the sleeping boy, but decides against it. Arthur wasn't getting his most prized possession anytime soon.

And then he leaves, with the door wide open.

The next day, he hears whispers.

"Oh my god, did you see Kirkland's room?"

"Yeah, someone must have it in for him."

"I think the scariest thing was that he didn't even look that surprised."

"Are you serious? Damn."

Ivan carefully hides his smirk as he returns to his room. He has a long night of work ahead of him, and it's even more difficult to concentrate, when he's still wearing Arthur's shirt. It smells like him and is much too small. He needs to leave it mostly unbuttoned, which puts him out a little. He hadn't realised Arthur was so tiny.

Thankfully, no one has noticed. Although, it might be funny, if anyone had noticed. Ivan wonders what would happen.

After locking his door, he falls into his chair, and curls up, and begins to read. He's gotten through most of the reading when he finally drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, he's in shock. His room is pristine and perfect. It practically sparkles. But that's not the really shocking thing.

Those are definitely not his pants.

And technically, he should have seen this coming. But he didn't think Arthur would make a move so soon.

He stands up, and scratches under his— Arthur's —shirt, when he pulls his hand away and his fingertips are purple.

He lifts his shirt, and there's writing on his stomach, starting at the lowest part of his abdomen, faced so that he can read it perfectly. It's in perfect, straight handwriting.

'You can call the favor any time.'

It's a cheesy statement, but as usual, it has the right effect. It's the power of suggestion. He's right there, waiting for him. Even now, the hairs on his arms raise at the thought of Arthur going through his belongings, cleaning, and then undressing him almost completely. Touching his bare skin.

Now he _really_ can feel the strain. He wonders if this is what Arthur felt yesterday morning, when he woke up to see his room destroyed and his own shirt gone.

When Ivan walks to class, he passes Arthur in the quad. It's unseasonably warm, but Arthur is wearing Ivan's coat—and his pants. Ivan is wearing Arthur's shirt and pants, too. It's strange, to see Arthur almost drowning in a sea of thick, baggy fabric. But that's not the best part. The best part is that he looks like he did that first night—ready to explode. When he sees Ivan, his jaw clenches, and he slows down. Their eyes meet, and Arthur confidently holds Ivan's gaze. He's pleading.

Ivan keeps walking.

Later that night, Ivan goes to the lab. He sits in the office. He's fairly sure that nothing will happen tonight. Technically, it's his turn, but Ivan's going to wait. Just a little bit longer—but only a little bit. Certainly, Ivan's losing steam too. He's tired, emotionally, and is ready. But he _knows_ that it will be better if he waits.

He buys more size XL pants online, he fixes one of the computers, and he works on his project—making his own computer. It's not that it's that difficult, in fact it's easy, but he enjoys things like that. It's a puzzle. Then again, he hasn't had the capacity for it in the past week. He's been working on another puzzle.

He hears a knock at the door. He sees in the reflection of the glass panel above his computer that it's Arthur.

Ivan lets Arthur in wordlessly. The office is clean for a change, and Arthur seems pleased.

"Good." He nods approvingly. Ivan shrugs.

"Not my doing." He stretches and slumps back into his chair. Now that Arthur's here, Ivan has nothing to stay. Scratch that, he has many things to say, but nothing seems right at the moment.

Arthur looks around the office. He spots a shot of vodka next to the computer, and bends over and throws it back with expertise.

"Not bad." He says, tasting it. Ivan stares up at him. He's still wearing his clothes, and it's an oddly pleasing sight. The pants barely cling onto Arthur, the coat nearly reaches his ankles. He's too small.

Ivan moves from sitting on the chair to leaning down in front of Arthur. Now their faces are level. Ivan takes Arthur's face in his hands, and brings him closer. Their noses touch. Ivan pushes back Arthur's hair, makes it messier. In Arthur's eyes, there is a sign of relief. But Ivan doesn't like that.

It has to be more passion than relief. If they wait just a little bit longer... it will be better. They haven't reached breaking point.

Ivan releases Arthur, and pushes him away. He gets off the desk, and leaves the office. Arthur stands there, looking more than stunned.

Ivan goes to the vending machine for some cold water—anything to help him. But he couldn't just give in right away. It is too soon. Maybe a few more days. Although, even now, his fingers itch. He burns.

When he returns to the office, it looks like it was hit by a nuclear explosion. Everything is shredded, broken.

But what bothers him is that his project—the computer—is broken. It's shattered on the floor.

Ivan stares.

Well, Ivan thinks, sitting down in his chair with his eyes glued to the smashed bits on the floor. This conveys several important messages. 1, Arthur wants Ivan to know that he's messed up. Psychotic. He can't cooperate as he should, in a relationship. 2, Arthur is sick of the strain. Of the wait. 3, he has no respect for other people's belongings.

Basically, he's saying, it's now, or never. But if it's now, this is fair warning.

Through their little game, Ivan has gotten to know Arthur well. He knows he's smart. He knows he's competitive. He knows he is secretive, because no one else seems to know this side of Arthur. He knows that he is always on the verge of losing it. He knows that he is a neat freak. He knows that he favors tea.

Well, it's as good as any first couple of dates, and no one said their rel—well, it's not a relationship. But whatever it is between them, no one said it was perfect.

But it's better. To go beyond the ridiculous game of watching each other eat and making small talk, as is the dating practice. You don't really _know_ someone that way. Had they done it that way, Ivan wouldn't know Arthur any differently than anyone else does. And that would take ninety nine percent of the fun out of it, for Ivan anyway. Probably Arthur, too. It's such a chase. Is Ivan the first person to deny him? What a rush.

Ivan cleans up the project. After all, he's already decided, this is where they will do it. Tonight, yes. Before he loses Arthur.

When Arthur wakes up the next morning, he isn't where he hoped he'd be when he woke up. And what he had hoped would happen, clearly didn't.

He rolls over in bed, and groans. Another night put off. Is Ivan still going to do it? Or is this just Arthur continually catching his bluff?

But when he looks at himself in the mirror, he understands.

Written everywhere, in horribly messy little-kid handwriting, are obscenities. And not just any obscenities. Arthur realizes that it's what Ivan would like to do to him, on every square inch of his skin, burned onto him in black ink. Around his eyes, on his ears, in his armpits, between his toes.

Shaking, Arthur looks down and pulls off his briefs. Nothing is written there, except on the lowest part of his abdomen, in purple ink, facing towards him, it says, 'Patience is a virtue.'

He gets in the shower and scrubs it all off, being sure to not miss a spot. It's not the writing that bothers him, so much as the thought of Ivan touching him so carefully, and so intimately, but deliberately putting off one spot.

His skin burns, and even as the ink is gone, he still scrubs. He's not going to be able to concentrate today, at all.

Goddammit.

Well, when he had gotten to Arthur's room, he was sleeping so peacefully. He didn't want to wake him up for something that he could make even better with one more day of waiting.

He wonders. He had wanted to do it in the lab, because that would be deliciously against the rules and wrong, but will Arthur approach him now? Or is it his turn? Wait, whose turn is it?

Ivan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Just now, it got complicated. Now that he's actually faced with the prospect of it, he's not sure he can bring himself to go through with it.

He's scared.

Of what, though? He's never been scared before. Never, and here, with this random guy and this silly, absurd, _ridiculous_ game, he's scared.

Ivan, staring out the window, makes his decision. The wait is killing him, despite his fears. He wants Arthur, and occasionally you have to give in. And certainly, this is a case where the benefit greatly outweighs the cost. Losing isn't really losing, it's all winning, in a way.

He leaves his dorm room, and travels to Arthur's, a path he's quickly become familiar with.

Should he barge in? Knock? Walk away?

He chooses to open the door slowly. Arthur is there, working, and Ivan finds pleasure in seeing him look so messed up. Ivan is making a mess of him. It's his fault.

"So you came." Arthur looks up, but doesn't move away from his desk. Ivan shuts the door quietly, and locks it.

He could make a really bad pun of Arthur words, but that would ruin the moment. They stare at each other, as tension fills the air so much it's stifling. Arthur looks like shit, and Ivan is lapping up the sight of it, eagerly.

Arthur turns back to his notes, his back tense. Ivan saunters over, and places his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

"Relax." He says in Arthur's ear, making Arthur jump nearly a foot.

"If you're here to mess with me, leave." He says coolly. He jots in his notes, ignoring Ivan. Ivan feels incensed by the sight of his hands holding the pen, positioning the notebook, writing. He's so careful.

Ivan doesn't answer, but runs his fingers up Arthur's neck, making goosebumps appear. His thumb goes over each bump of his spine, and they travel through Arthur's hair.

His hands continue to travel over the front of Arthur's face. These are his bangs, this is his forehead, these are his eyebrows, these are his cheekbones, this is his nose... these are his lips. "Go back to the lab. I don't want to see you right now." Arthur says in a significantly less cool voice. Ivan smiles.

This is his chin. This is his jaw. This is his neck. This is his collarbone. Then Ivan's hands stop on his chest, and he rests them there, leaning over Arthur. Arthur's heart rate is doing double time, but Ivan's is doing triple.

"I find it fascinating," Arthur begins, "that you can come in here after all this, and expect me to just go through with it. You had your chance."

"You said I could call in the favor any time," Ivan points out as he continues to feel Arthur's heartbeat.

"That was before. It's too late now." Arthur's voice shakes.

"You're not pushing me away."

"Do you want me to?"

"I can wait."

"What if there is no wait, what if I'm done?"

"You're not."

Ivan is resting his head on Arthur's stomach. Arthur is reading from a calculus textbook, and occasionally reads aloud from it.

"Three space. It's multivariable calculus. Octants."

"Why is that important?"

"You should know it. You're a tech geek." He doesn't sound irritated or forceful, only all-knowing. Ivan is at peace with this. His condescension is natural, and when Ivan finds himself parroting it, he feels himself glowing.

"What's so special about it?"

"Planes. Spaces. You're coordinates. Just sets of coordinates in three space, forming you. It's aesthetic. It's geometric forms. X, y, and z. That's all you are. That's all anything is. The world is three space and can be reduced to coordinates."

"Technically, yes." Ivan says thoughtfully, although he's not really thinking about three space. He already knows it anyway, but he likes to hear Arthur talk about things. He says things with the same certainty that Ivan thinks them.

Arthur's room is messy, but if he notices it, he doesn't seem to care.

Ivan sits up awkwardly. Arthur is staring at his back.

"What does my equation look like?" Ivan asks, without turning around.

"Mm."

"Mm?"

"It'd be too many variables."

"What are my coordinates?"

"They change too much."

"So you don't know."

" _Technically_ ," Arthur begins, using Ivan's word, "I do."

Ivan shrugs and flops back down, listening to Arthur tell him all the things he already knows. Multivariable calculus, computers, love, and the evils of sweets. Technically, it's a bad relationship. Technically, it's not a relationship. Technically-

Oh, who really gives a fuck, anyway?


End file.
